The Lies We Told On Thursday Nights

18. Friday: Broken Beyond Repair (Emery)

Hey everyone! Sorry this is a bit late, I took my SATS this morning. And it took me a long time to write this chapter (kept rewriting it cause its a kinda big chapters.) I hope it is good.

Emery

Thursday- 12:31

The bell had just rung, and per usual the crowd of kids rushed towards the exit.

I stayed behind, placing my books and supplies perfectly in my backpack. I checked my phone to see an email from Mitch, due to a wedding, group got moved to this Monday. I clicked on the email to surprisingly find Levi attached to it.

I was confused for a moment but then realized what had happened. Our school email is our first initial, last name, middle initial and @edinsonhigh ...so since Cooper knew Levi's name, and that we went to the same school...it wasn't hard to crack his email.

He shrugged it off, slinging my backpack over my shoulder.

Getting ready to leave, my AP Literature teacher, Mrs.Smith called after me.

"Emery" he voice was shaky and concerned.

I began to tremble, I knew that voice all too well. It was the pity, concerned, I know you have a problem voice.

I instinctively glanced at my shoes, too scared to look at her. Maybe she'd see how much I needed help.

"What?" I breathed.

She sighed, stepping out from behind her desk.

And started walking toward me.

I felt like this was an alleyway, she was armed blocking the entrance and I a cornered2 victim.

"Emery," she repeated my name sympathetically. A few inches from me, she placed her hand on my shoulder, gently guiding me to a seat.

I couldn't speak or move, I was paralyzed as she sat me down. My body completely shut down, faced with my fetal fear. Pity and acknowledgment.

Shutting my eyes, I tried to think about something else. A way to get out. Or even better, any other conversations this could be beside about my mental illness.

"I'm a-" she faltered, carefully thinking her words. She was young, late 20s, yet an English prodigy. "Bit worried about you."

I shook my head, not giving her a chance to explain. "I'm fine. I don't know why you're worried."

She gave me a sad smile. "Your writing hasn't been on-point. You seem distracted and you look-"

She spoke in a whisper, like a tone you use with a child. I was not a child. I hated this condescending, pitiful voice.

"I'm fine, really," I said forcefully. I feared she would comment my weight, or connect mental illness to my school performance. I was scared she'd figure out the truth.

"You just look a bit too skinny," she said the word slowly, fully aware my sensitivity.

I tried to grapple with the exploding idea that she sees my thinness as a weakness. I could tell she was worried, but I didn't care. She had no right to comment on my weight. Tell me I was too skinny, there is no such thing as too skinny.

And to bring my grades into this, I was furious. The two things I valued most in the world: grades and body appearance were being questioned by one of my favorite people.

It was infuriating.

"I'm not too skinny," I blurted defensively, unconsciously leaping a bit out of my seat. She furrowed her eyebrows, glancing at my tense about-to pounce posture. I swallowed hard and attempted to ease myself back into a natural position.